Becoming Me
by RikuIsKing
Summary: [INDEFINATE HIATUS] People didn't always understand, they didn't always choose to listen. However, with InuYasha with me through everything I found that in life it was really easy to take the journey to becoming me. [INDEFINATE HIATUS]
1. Boulevard Of Broken Dreams

Disclaimer~_"I don't own **InuYasha** or its characters; they belong to the amazing person: **Rumiko Takahashi**! I just like taking them and playing with them sometimes!"_

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><p><em>Now this is not the end.<em>

_ It is not even the beginning of the end. _

_But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning._

- **Winston Churchill**

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><p>What does it mean to be who you really are? Is it the ability to listen to only your soul, stand on your own, or realize that you could finally have your own voice, and be heard after long and painful tear-filled nights? Who knows? Do you always have to start the journey with a proper beginning, or even should you claim your goal without any sadness experienced? I think, not really. The way I imagine it to be who you really are, rather the tale that leads towards it is just a series of emotions. It is feeling after feeling, happiness or depression? My point is everyone will have them.<p>

And with it? Those different moments that come together and give meaning to the thing know as life—maybe not yours, maybe not a person you know, but someone's life.

I like people who show who they really are, don't you? I like the ones who no matter how hard life gets, they keep moving forward, taking no bullshit from anyone and just own up to who they are. Damn, I'd love to be one of them, but teh...I'm still stuck in the beginning of this long tale. Those people put all their worth into that single thread of a dangling moments, of all their happiness. All for the purpose of saying: Fuck everyone else, I'm gonna be me. Because with every person that meet it affects them and makes them become better. It changes people, and it's nothing no one can control.

There's something astonishing about writing, ya know? Well why I do it is this: I get to pick and choose moments that I wanted to tell, forming the tale that is someone's life. It's childish since, I'd rather write about people standing up for the things I only wish I could do myself.

It's so fucking foolish, right?

However, there's something empowering and fascinating about that. Giving your thoughts and made up events in your head a purpose. An entire life that no one else has lived. But countless can relate too. When I think about it, I see the world with a greater purpose though the eyes of others, Never been grown but can tell the troubles of children, never been beaten but can write like that of a victim. Scary, isn't it? Probably not, because not everyone can become who they really are. I'm one of them and damn, it sucks more than anything.

My job is to interpret other people's lives, tell their stories. My role is to tell stories other than my own. Never in my life have I been concerned with doing otherwise—

_until now._

I guess that I finally realized to tell their stories; I must finally open up and tell my own, even if it's only from no other person's thoughts or feelings, I'll know what I stayed true too and the trails it too to become me. It's nothing amazing, for the record, nothing surprisingly deep or life changing, which would make you stop and listen to my tale. It's not about the ability to listen to only your soul, stand on your own, or realize that you could finally have your own voice, and be heard after long and painful tear-filled nights?

It's not even about us, or hell, me. It's just a series of emotions, a brief look, into the minds of others. Things just happen, the way both fate and you wanted them too and for once I don't mind sharing these things, because even if you don't find it all that meaningful.

It's how I plan on becoming me.

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><p>One, two, and three...I counted in my head as another cut made its home upon my wrists. Four, five, and six...a bloody bliss to make my other wrist match. I was about to move onto my stomach when the noise shook my room:<p>

**_Crash!_**

"Dammit." I didn't need this, couldn't she go and be drunk somewhere else?

Making my way down the narrow, cluttered hallway, it was a mixture of hardwood and carpet, both of which were a moldy color and had a horrible smell, almost making it unlivable but with enough air-freshener and scented candles it was alright. Since Grandpa passed away a few years ago, mom had let the place go to waste. The stairs squeaked with each and every step. Annoying - was theonly word that came to mind. I was never sure if it was because of the squeaking or my mom. Overtime I simply accepted it as the lather.

"How can Souta sleep through all this shit? You do this like every night?"

"Souta's learned to deal with it, why can't you?"

Coming past the paper thin wall that separated the upstairs and living room - if it could be called such. Mom was in her usual place. Half naked on the coach with nothing but a sheet that hung off the right arm, she used it to cover her private skins. Though nothing more. It wasn't the best of places to call bed with its holes and many lose springs. The patches that covered some of the tears and stains that had developed over the years of neglected use.

Though after another night of drinking this place was her comfort. Easier to claim than her own bed upstairs I suppose. Currently, she was holding a glass beer bottle and slowly took sips of it, Already drunk she would still drink until she passed out or ran out of that addictive substance, the first of the two options occurred more often than not.

"I'm 16, I don't have to put up with this shit, you know?" I cross my arms and lean on the kitchen counter. I hated the smell of beer. I was the kind of person who enjoyed Grey Goose more than anything.

Tipping the bottle until its contents ran out into her mouth. She gazed at me with sorrow, though I was used to this game we did every night. "Then leave, Kagome."

That name again. Damn, I hated it more than anything else...well almost anything, point was that name was dead. It never existed along with the person she called it too. "Kage. My name is Kage." I spoke out of habit, I had been using this name since year three of Primary school and she always refused to say it.

"Where does that leave Souta? Since his mom is a drunk, as his older sibling I'm the next best thing."

I made my way to the couch. I was still half asleep per my normal. Always thankful that the darkness hid my cut marks, not that it would matter. After-all the skin I sliced was just as nonexistent as the name she called me before. I just stood over her, just looking and seeing the woman that I called mother.

"Why do you always fucking do this to yourself?"

"Your father's eyes were in his." And this look I couldn't place came over her.

"Yeah, he did?" I played this game every night for the past six - almost seven years. I was used to her rambles and I had gotten used to what answers to give. Habit...that's all it was.

My eyes watched intently as she played with the blanket. Her body wanted to escape into sleep, but her mind wanted to remain concuss with me. "He was kind, though he left me outside the club alone. How rude, right baby?"

"Yeah...rude ass. Nothing like dad, so why?"

"Sweetie, I could never say no to those eyes-" she reached her hand up and gently currsed my cheek with her thumb. Something she often did to me when I was a child before dad died. Souta never experienced it to my knowledge. It was only something her and I shared. Never spoke it but I was grateful. "-you have those same eyes, you know?"

"Yeah, ma'ma. You've told me this since I was born. I know."

For that moment I found myself being her baby again. When it was just her, dad, and myself. Souta hadn't been thought of quite yet. And Grandpa came around often enough that he was like a second dad. Life was perfect then, we were all happy. Though we had struggles, it was us - a family. I miss it more than anything. The two men that meant more to me than anything within the first ten years of my life:

_Gone._

It was when mom's hand slipped from my face and fell lazily to hang just above the floor. "Fell asleep, eh?" Fixing the sheet so it wrapped around her I lifted her with all the care onto my back and started making my way up the stairs towards the back room, mother in toll. "Sometimes-"

Damn, I hated those damn squeaks...

"-I wonder who the parent and who the child was."

Just something I always thought was all. Though when it came to situations like this? The answer was clear as hell to see. Coming towards the last room on the right, I went inside and flicked on the light. Wasn't surprised to see clothes and shoes littered the floor. See, my mother was your tipical girl and me? Well, that's a story for later. I layed her body on the bed, and scanned the hardwood for one of the many slips she wore to bed. Women never was one for pants, unlike me.

Coming across a shimmering light pink one I made a face at it. Wasn't into things like this, never have and I damn sure never would be. However, I grabbed it, smelling it for cleanliness before slipping it over the women's bare form. "Sleeps like the dead." I threw the cover over mom and left her room.

"Teh, I'm the parent here."

Walking down the hall, I came to my room. Turning on the lights as I went past my door, and left it cracked. In case Souta somehow heard anything that had went on downstairs. He was only eight, but he knew more than most people knew. Mom never saw it, but I sure as hell did.

I flopped on my bed and searched until I found my journel, in its awesome midnight purple, and yes that is a color. I felt like shit so why not write about someone feeling the same? Glancing out the window, which had bars lining it both horizontal, making most people feel that they were trapped in prison, but to those of us who've been here all our lives it was our only home. Though there were other reasons for it to be a prison:

_A drunk of a mother._

Looking out towards our apartment complex, it was small. It had maybe fifty to sixty-five people hidden away from the world, out-cast by those who had proper jobs and a "normal" way of living, but everyone here had something in common, they were barely getting by. Last time I checked Souta and myself were the only children who lived here. However, I couldn't really be called a child anymore. I had seen and knew far to much now. Unlike mu innocent younger brother. I always wished for him to stay that way.

There was only a single building that held everyone, a few years ago the other one burned down leaving only the one were we lived today. There was a tiny park with swings, an old slide, a classic merry-go-round, and a titer-totter separated from building A only by a pitiful span of sidewalk, cracked in places from the uprooting of trees and parking lot where a variety of cars huddled together, some more nicer than others, reason being some people here did shady things at night, or even during the day, when they thought no one was looking.

The streets, the lot, the walls—all of it was a dull yellowish and brownish gray, although there was the color of a variety, green, which probably came from the many trees and plants that had made their home in the many cracks of the building. It wasn't so much worn out and tiring as it was depressing. I'd been raised in this one apartment, like so many others had been their entire life, it had become comfortable over the years with it and yet I was sick of it at the same time, same old people every day, same faces coming and going. Souta didn't mind. Since I made sure he didn't go to school around here. It's like I said before I was the parent here.

Here, there was no such thing as variety or change just the reoccurring faces; most I still couldn't place a name too. Even though I didn't know them personally or at all, that didn't keep me from using them in stories of the world around me. The people, events, or even the truly disturbing and the ones no one seemed to care for those are the ones I wrote about.

There was one time when I met a man in the park. It was a couple years ago, and he didn't live here anymore. His home had burned down. He had just come and sat next to me. I remember it had been oddly warm out for a December day and I didn't have school. He asked how was the weather, and I hadn't spoken at first. It was that phase in my life when I spoke to no one. Though you'll hear more about that later. It wasn't until he brought up something so stupid that my interest was peeked:

_Stories._

He'd seen me writing in one of my older journals but I guess I'm like my ma'ma. Something in his eyes reminded me of my dad and I had let him peek into one of the few places that I allowed my thoughts to run free. It was at this time were I'll never forget what he asked me: "Sucks not being heard, right?"

He was a kind old man with a smile that had most teeth missing but it was something in that moment that made me stop and think, ya know? About what he said, since I had felt that way plenty of times before. Though I had never acted on them. A couple hours later he'd gotten up much like the way he had sat down. Slow, but with more haste than most. That make sense? He handed me my journal back and said something else that I'll never forget to this day:  
><em>"Fuck this world and what it wants you to be."<em>

And without another word he left. It wasn't long after that when the second building had caught fire and I never had the chance to speak to him again. Though I never forgot that moment. I wrote about it a few times not to long after. It changed me, ya know? Made me open my eyes, wake the fuck up and say for myself. "Fuck this world, I'm going to become me."

However, I didn't know it then. But damn, that was something I was going to have to work at_ just to live. _

That was why, every day, you'd find me sitting at the top of the second floor stairway, in that small cut-off corner so nobody could see me. Looking onto the parking-lot with my pencil in hand, ready to catch whatever moment came my way. Like today, I usually came out around six, maybe even as late as eight if I got up later, writing away while waiting for the bus. Souta went to a better school far away from this dump. So his special bus came around six on the dot everyday and dropped him home around four the same way.

It was so I didn't have to worry about him, you know? I had enough with school and all.

The alley cats had come out, meowing their obnoxious songs, but over the years we had made an unspoken agreement, if I feed them, they would allow me to write about their movements or 'meows' to one another. Though sometimes they - just like people - could be picky. Though I could relate. I grabbed the empty bowl and reached into my backpack and pulled out a small half-pint of milk, pouring it into the bowl and watched as the familiar faces came out and drank. I guessed today wasn't the day because just as quick as they had arrived, they vanished like a thief in the night.

I glanced at my phone and sighed, as I realized the time. Eight o' clock. Bus should be here any moment now. Sighing once again, I grabbed my note-book and pencil and headed back to my apartment to grabbed my textbooks, house key, put the bowl in the sink, and lock the door, all the while knowing the bus driver would wait a total of two extra minutes before honking the horn and pulling off. I had a similar set up to Souta except the high school I attended was in another town. About an hour away, yeah I was that kid.

I had never cared that I rode a special Ed bus to school, teh. As many times as I missed the damn thing not a lot of people knew. Besides, I did my best and worst thinking on the damn bus. Lucky for me though it seemed this morning I was on time.

"Morning driver, guess who's on time for once?" I gave the man a fake cheesy grin.

"Damn, maybe you stopped feeding those cats for once-" he looked me up and down for a moment. "You gonna keep standing there or sit down?"

"Alright, alright. Damn can I walk?" It was like this almost every morning with the man. Though we didn't hate each other. It was more of an older brother thing with him, yeah. So I made my way to the very back, as I did on those off days when I was on time. Popped my headphones in and I was on my way to school, great.


	2. Born Like This

_"I am Me. In the entire world, there is no one else exactly like me. _  
><em>Everything that comes out of me is authentically mine, because I alone chose it - I own everything about me: my body, my feelings, my mouth, my voice, all my actions, whether they be to others or myself.<em>  
><em> I own my fantasies, my dreams, my hopes, my fears.<em>  
><em> I own my triumphs and successes, <em>  
><em>all my failures and mistakes. <em>  
><em>Because I own all of me, I can become intimately acquainted with me.<em>  
><em> By so doing, I can love me and be friendly with all my parts.<em>  
><strong>-Virginia Stair<strong>

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><p>School was with lack of a better word: <strong>Hell.<strong>

I hated it, I really did. Though you might think it was because I didn't like the work – that's not right. I have a hunger for learning that no one could break. I just tended to stay away from other people – or rather: they stayed away from me. I was used to this though; it had started long before my grandfather had passed on. About three of four years before, actually. As I walked through the halls towards my locker I was used to the noises, the whispers, and for some assholes a shove, or a full out push.

I grabbed my books: English 11, Algebra II, and my music. Only things I was good at in this school were two things: English, and band. Not that it really mattered to anyone my grades had fallen from a 4.0 to someone barely making a 2.5. However, no one had ever asked me why.

I strolled into English, thankful when I noticed the substitute and the only work was to finish our essays, and then the rest of the 90 minute class was ours. I finished my essay around the same time she assigned it last week. Mr. Smith hadn't given us a topic but rather we pick something that could be used that troubled us about the world. I liked Mr. Smith since he just got me, ya know? He was a really cool teacher and said nothing when I told him my topic was on Gender-roles in the U.S compared to other countries in the world like China, Japan, and I believe I did a couple third world countries?

"Alright class. Please remain silent as I call roll, and please feel free to correct me if I say your name wrong."  
>The sub had been the one to pull me out of my thoughts. Subs were cool I mean it usually meant less work for a certain day and you had more time to chill before you had to a class with your normal teacher and thus meaning: Real work. While that was nice and all there was one thing with subs that I hated since well forever: Roll, attendance – whatever the hell you wanted to call it. It was the one thing I hated about subs.<p>

"Marcus Garcia?"

"I'm here."

Damn that meant, damn. He was the only "G" last name in the room and I was the only "H" shit. Shit. Dammit! If she called that name I swear I was going to lose it. I really was. I had my saying it out of habit to mom, but subs? Teachers? No since they always questioned and wondered why I hated a name that wasn't even mine to begin with. None of their damn concern. Another reason to why I hated being 16: People thought age – a number gave someone authority over another.

"Kagome Higurashi?"

I sighed it was always going to be like this, for now anyway. Might as well make this much of a habit as I did with mom. "The name's Kage and here."

"I may be old but I'm not blind sweetie, the name on roll says 'Kagome."

"I understand that but everyone calls me Kage, it's what I'm used to."

"Are you going to answer to Kagome?"

"I just told you my name is Kage."

"Alrighty then, Kagome is absent. I think that's everyone."

The hell did this women think she was doing? I just told her I was here, and she fucking ignored me? The hell was her problem. I didn't want to cause any more of a seen than I already had. I could already hear the kids in the class laughing and making side remarks about what had just taken place. Teh' this is why I hated school. I grabbed my books and essay, making my way to the front of the room. I dropped said essay in the basket before I began to confront the teacher. However, I wasn't trying to be hostile. Yet anyway.

"Excuse me Ms-"I paused there didn't even know the women's name.

"Williams."

"Ms. Williams I understand what the name on the roll says. Though what I said was in no disrespect I just said that my name is Kage and that I am here. So would you mind marking me present?"

"Now why would I do that? The name on the roaster is Kagome and you told me your name is Kage. Maybe if you answered to your own name-"

"You don't have to tell me what I should or shouldn't answer to since that's none of your concern. I tried being nice about it but damn, seriously? Well your right my name is Kage, that also means I don't have to stay in this room so see ya' fucking later!"

I stormed out of the room. The door slammed with a 'bang'. You know those days where you don't have the energy to even deal with people? Yeah, this was one of them for me. I'd been having them a lot. They only really had gotten bad when I reached my freshmen year and have only gotten worse now. I didn't know where I was going to go at first then it hit me: Outta here. I had two band classes today, and after English I would only have Algebra II…yeah it wouldn't matter if I missed school today, wouldn't be like mom would be sober enough to care anyway.

I walked to my locker at a slow pace. Letting my thoughts linger on my past for a few moments but I stopped. I would have plenty of time to think upon that memory when I got the hell outta this school. I put in the combination put my English and math book inside before pulling out my bag. I think I would keep my music book for now. With my bag tossed over my shoulder I silently pondered what excuse I would tell my music teacher about why I wouldn't be in class today.

Reaching the door I thought on an excuse – well it wasn't much of one as it was the truth. "Hey Ms. Fuji." I smiled as I walked into the band room. See I really admired Ms. Fuji a lot she was one of only three female high-school directors in the county and of only ten in the entire country. She was dark-skinned and had these beautiful brown eyes that glimmered whenever she heard good music, maybe that's why she decided to teach in the first place. Though she'll never tell us.

"Kage, where should you be?"

"I donno you tell me?"

"Class. What have you done now?"

I sighed. I really needed a smoke soon or I was going to-well let's just say my stomach would match my wrists from last night. "I did nothing. I'm going home early, it okay I take my trombone to practice?"

She eyed me for a moment but didn't say anything. "It's fine, tell your mother I said hello."

"I will and see you Wednesday." I lied I probably wasn't going to come back this week. Oh well.

I grabbed my horn from the closet and for a moment allowed my hands to run over the smooth ebony case before leaving the room. From the way she eyed me the women probably figured that I was skipping. But she was too nice to tell me not to. Another reason I liked her a lot. She could just look at one of her students and know when they needed to get away or needed someone to listen. Since freshmen she always tried to get me to talk but I never would.

"Teh' Ms. Fuji only if you knew…"

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><p>I walked around to the west side of the school and began to climb out the window, there was one connected to both bathrooms. Why they had windows in a high school bathrooms, where children could leave at any time and do as they pleased I'll never know but then again I wasn't one known to complain. I gently placed my instrument case on the ground, and then I leaped after it. Closing the window from the outside.<p>

I just started walking; I didn't really have anywhere to go since mostly everyone stayed away from me. Though I knew of a secret spot cut off it reminded me of an alleyway though it wasn't? All I knew was that no one else seemed to go there. It was perfect for those days when mum and me would fight. I would sometimes end up spending nights there. In the colder months, I would wait until I knew she wasn't home to return or hanged over like no tomorrow the years since the day I found it:

_I didn't know what to call it._

It didn't matter to me though. I could be myself there. Away from the world's eyes and misunderstood judgments. That's just what I planned on doing as I crawled through the small space and slid my trombone through the small craves. Reaching into my bag I pulled out a half-empty pack of New Port ™ cigarettes and put the butt between my teeth before lighting it with a lighter. I breathed in the addicting air that I'd known since my 8th year in school. Cancer sticks was a common name for these sources of nicotine but for people like me they were an escape from my life just as my mom's was drinking.

Honestly, could you blame me for now I ended up like this? However I suppose you can't really know what I'm talking about unless I tell you, eh? Taking another hit of a legal drug that'll make me closer to my grave I sighed. I wasn't always this twisted or broken. I used to be a normal kid - or what I could consider normal for me. I just wanted to be like everyone else. But life is a true bitch. Closing my eyes I allowed myself to think upon the more.._.'happier'_ moments in my life.

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><p>I think I had turned about thirteen when this happened. Yeah, it was around the time of my birthday. Grandpa was still around then. His health could've been better but he was alive and breathing. He was the first person and only one who knew. Grandpa had took me shopping and bought me my very first pair of boxers, and a real Rolf Lauren polo. I remember how I rubbed my hands over the fabric. Like if I didn't touch it.<p>

This happiness would vanish right before my eyes.

They weren't the overly amazing kind, which most boys wore at my school, they were a modest solid black and "Joe Boxer" could be read from the waist band. The polo was small enough for me to wear and not hung from my shoulders, but still be able to wear as I got older. I still owned it, though /thankfully/ I had grew in the years from that day. Though I think of it as a memento, ya know?

Grandpa had said that he was tired of me always being upset with the things that my momma got me. He told me how it hurt his heart that since I was at his knee in height that my eyes always held sadness in their azure pools. So he told me that it was a special gift that no one else could know about. Not momma nor papa. But it wasn't something he didn't need to tell me twice. We'd gone over it time and time again. Ma and Papa didn't like knowing one of their daughters' liked to dress up as a boy, or even state that they were a boy. It was something taboo in mmy religious home then and still was till this day.

So I just made sure they didn't see. It wasn't hard, considering back then Ma worked often late into the night, and Dad would be off on many business trips not returning for days or weeks at a time, at his worst maybe a month or two, although those were very rare. It became even better (or /much/ worse) when Dad had passed on. While I was sad and alone the only thing I had really were the things Grandpa had gotten for me and the nice things Dad left behind. Though Ma took most of them when she found out. I had enough things that I could grow into.  
>After school, when she was at work and Souta was at daycare. It was just me and Sugar, our dog alone in our house; I'd pull out my special clothes, the ones Ma or Papa knew nothing about and wear the boxers underneath. Though this could only hold me for so long, right? But it kept me together while everything around me was falling apart.<p>

I'd try out my outfits and look at myself in the mirror, frown at the softness of my arms and legs, the curviness of my body, that I hated so much. Frown at my straight-curvy hair. Sometimes I wore a bandana and hat over it, which I let lean to the right a little, covering more of my face. I had once cut my hair and it was long enough to come down to the beginning of my back in corn-rows. That wasn't good enough though. I could easily pass as a guy, but it wasn't good enough. Since I knew that my body was going to grow into someone I wasn't and it wasn't fucking fair.

After I'd criticized myself enough, most times I was on the break of tears, but none never dared to flow from my eyes. I changed back to my school clothes and started on homework. Read, write, and mess with the dog, which was always licking something. I would do almost anything to take my mind off things. By the time Ma came home with Souta in toll, I would already have the urge to dress up out of my system, get my feelings of living a depressing lie out until the next chance came to dress.

She didn't have to see or know; besides I was too scared to tell her, I knew how much she was stressing since Pa was gone and Grandpa too. I didn't want to bother her with something else. Though parents had this way of saying you could tell them anything, but I knew that was a total lie…

See, Ma didn't get it, like most people in my life. Dad hadn't even known. Yet I had a feeling that, if he were /still/ around, he wouldn't approve. Grandpa was the only person who got it. Well I don't think he knew but he tried. Always told me that he had an inkling that…something was off, whenever he took me to the store and I would run to the boys section for everything, games, toys, and shoes it didn't matter what it was, if it was for a boy, I had to have it. He didn't hate me or tell me it was wrong. He didn't force anything on me or support it either. He let me lead and he simply followed. Looking back on it now:

_That's all I really want Ma to do._

Grandpa didn't get it, but he tried to understand. At least he tried to understand. That's why I felt like I could just die happy the day he handed me that Polo bag, I think I did die but was brought back just to try them on. He didn't understand it. He just listened to his grandchild. That's what counted,** right?**

* * *

><p>For my fourteenth birthday I treated myself with the money she had given me. That's all I had asked for that year, just money or a Visa gift card. She put the money together for one card with two-hundred dollars I could spend however I wanted. And, of course, I spent all of it on my habit; I mean I always could use the extra clothing that wasn't pink or covered in flowers, or trying to show a chest that I didn't even want there. The first thing I bought was a binder, because I needed it, then. My chest had began developing along with another thing that should go fucken die. I was lucky enough to catch a sell so I got a black and white binder for the price of one! It was totally worth fifty bucks though. I also got a small packer, for when I wore my jeans I could get the weight and appearance of really having something there.<p>

I'd ordered them online, had to steal the package from the mail and smuggle it into my room before Ma managed to see. I also splurged on chains, watches, a suit, jeans, T-shirts and many other things under the sun. I could fit a lot of dads things better now than I could then. His stuff was always nice, high end, especially his shoes. God, that man knew his shoe game and how to wear every single pair. Damn, I was lucky that he only wore a half size bigger than me in men's shoes. I had retros before they re-released them as the retros. I also had a bunch of vans and chucks, since I liked my chuck Taylor's more than the J's and Nike's Dad owned when he was alive.

Now, there's this trunk I have for all of these things, mainly my clothes. Not my every day so called_ "normal"_ clothes, my girly clothes. I'm talking about my real clothes. The ones I liked to wear. I had them all folded neatly and stacked away in that trunk underneath my bed. There wasn't a whole bunch. Though compared to the few girly clothes I had to pick and choose over that weren't like overly meant for girls. I had a mountion of those clothes in the trunk.

I had six polo's, committed by that famous polo symbol. Four muscle shirts, with the new binder I could pass of pretty damn well, although if I wanted a truly flat look I would wear them both. One on top of some plain t-shirts. I had close to a dozen T-shirts, obviously meant for guys, eight pairs of skinny jeans and ten of normal baggy jeans for everyday use. Then I had six pairs of shorts and two pairs of shoes, and the Air Jordan Bred 11's.

Oh…and I had my boxers and my white beaters'. I had about two dozen pairs of those; I also had my packer in another bag. All of this didn't take up much space in the trunk, it was fairly large and kind of old and I was forever hoping to expand my wardrobe, mainly for more shoes and snapbacks. Speaking of snapbacks I only had five of them and they are all like my children.

No, seriously, I named them all...**don't**_ judge me..._

Why am I telling you all of this, you wonder? Maybe you know already and remember what I said before or have forgotten. Well… Because. Someone needs to understand, fully. Not just try to, but actually listen to my story and think about it and understand what I'm talking about, because it's driving me insane. I need to get it out. I'm not talking about the "curing" or other voodoo shit; come on this is complete shit in and of its self. I really do. I mean how hard is it to say I'm a guy? Now, I'm not going to say that I was born in the wrong body since even with everything I can do to change myself. This body isn't going anywhere.

_I like to think of it as a few defects that cost a shit load to make right._

I know it's weird. I know that, if people found out, they'd consider me a freak. Most people, I'm sure. I know it's probably better for me not to risk it, to just stop with the dressing up, especially in public, but I don't. It's who I am, so I don't stop. I mean how can you tell someone to stop being who they are? I'm not harming anyone, am I? No, I'm not. So if your only reason is because of some religious shit that not everyone in this country even believes in?

You can shut up and let me finally be happy and become me.

* * *

><p>I tossed the cigerate to the ground and pulled out my phone. two-thirty. I sighed. something I'd been doing a lot today and crawled my way out of the ally-like thing. Throwing my bag on my sholder and trombone case in hand I started walking again. School was out now and I didn't really have any place I should go - that was until I saw a flayer.<p>

It was a modest tan with a pink bordor and bold letters that said: Help wanted. It was something about a club. It needed an opening for some girls birthday party. "I got nothing better to lose-" then I read if accepted you got paid twenty bucks by the hour. "I really have nothing to lose." Ripping the flayer off the wall I checked out the address. It was only a bus ride away from the mall.

"Teh' guess someone is lookin' out for me. I even got my trombone with me." With that I guess you could say things were starting to go my way and for once? I thought maybe life wasn't bad after-all. However, when I got to the bus stop one thought crossed my mind:

What the hell am I gonna play?


End file.
